


don't you know we can live forever

by herringbone



Series: Revolution, Revolution! [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anxiety, Band Fic, F/M, I suppose I should tag the actual band, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Multi, except that they're called Revolution Revolution, one direction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 19:51:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6092142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herringbone/pseuds/herringbone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Les Mis band AU where Courfeyrac and Cosette are bloody good stage managers, Marius gets in the way, Eponine makes an appearance, so does Jehan, and Enjolras, Ferre, Joly, Bossuet, and R are almost One Direction. Until Grantaire leaves.</p><p>(Or, Enjolras never writes love songs. Until he does.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't you know we can live forever

**Two weeks before**

Grantaire isn’t pretending he doesn’t miss it when he opens YouTube on his nights off. The site always wants to suggest that he rewatch _their_ videos. Like the video they made after three weeks straight of touring, after the third week with the last five nights of shows in a row. Enjolras had been in the worst mood, but the last shot has him and Combeferre smiling properly right before Joly is about to tackle them. Grantaire tries not to watch them more than once.

On a night like this a few months ago he might have texted Bossuet or something. Now he’s gotten to the point where he’s just getting on with things.

When he isn’t scrawling lyric ideas on serviettes like the music artist wanker he is, he’s dropping into events, meeting with producers, or talking to Floreal. (She’s not a bad manager, and she does the work of three people most of the time, but _god_ he misses Eponine and Cosette.) Otherwise it’s day by day. It almost doesn’t sting when he catches sight of magazines with four unmistakable figures across their front covers. He doesn’t even have to ask himself if the one who’s second from the right, in red, _always in red_ , has thought about it.

In an unsurprising turn of events, all Grantaire seems to be able to write are love songs. He tries not to let the irony get to him.

 

 <>

 

**29 July 2015 –[R reveals the REAL reason he left Revolution, Revolution as he signs new solo record deal](http://www.mirror.co.uk/3am/celebrity-news/zayn-malik-reveals-real-reason-6161773)**

_Grantaire has announced that he's signed to Brick Records as he readies his solo career after leaving Revolution, Revolution._

_The 22-year-old singer (stage name ‘R’) – who made a shock departure from boy band earlier this year – has revealed he is ready to show people who he “really is” with his new music, suggesting that he wasn't able to be himself before._

_Dropping the news on Twitter on Wednesday night, he captioned a photograph of him signing a record deal: “I guess I never explained why I left , it was for this moment to be given the opportunity to show you who i really am! #realmusic #RCA !! ... #REALME (sic)”._

 

<>

 

“Is anyone else still feeling really weird about the whole thing?”

Combeferre grunts, possibly in affirmative, flipping idly through a copy of the paper. Grantaire’s photo is splashed across the front cover.

“Not about _it_ , per se. More about him,” Bossuet says, yawning.

He shifts in his set, laying his head against Joly’s shoulder. Joly shrugs, dislodging Bossuet, and returns to folding paper cranes. The booklet of washi paper nearly slips off the folding table, saved at last minute by Courfeyrac, who hums, apparently unsatisfied.

“We know what he’s like, though,” he insists. “What kind of hashtag is that, anyway?”

“He’s known to have been sarcastic once in a while.”

Enjolras is supposedly napping in the corner, but the drawling voice is unmistakable.

“It’s just weird,” Courfeyrac mutters, glancing at Combeferre’s paper once more.

“Leave it, Courf,” Cosette says. She pokes her head around the doorway from the front of the plane. “We’ll be there in maybe another hour. We’ll probably have ten minutes of unavoidable cameras, just so you know.”

“I’m only posing if it’s Chetta’s camera,” Joly mutters.

Bossuet sniggers.

“Can you all shut up for at _least_ another half an hour?” Enjolras grumbles.

“I reckon the press was wrong to label R the drama queen, you know,” says Combeferre mildly.

Enjolras throws a sweater at him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Three years before**

He’s only on the show because he’s got a backstory he can milk for all it’s worth, a drinking problem to prove it, and a reasonable voice. It’s not what Grantaire expected, but it’s fun at least some of the time. Javert even gave him an actual compliment last week. The less fun parts are the waiting and the backstage bitching and all of the invasive questions from fans who stop him on the street because the pockmarks on his cheeks are a dead giveaway in any neighbourhood.

Mostly he doesn’t see it, and stays away and back home where things are a lot more normal. His cat still scratches his face in the mornings if he doesn’t hear her mewling for food within a few seconds. The bakery on the corner of his street still sells half price loaves at close of business.

He’s been splashed across a couple of billboards in London now, though, and it’s an uncanncy feeling to see his own face looming across underground stations and tired commuters. The studio have put him up in a little flat for the final month, and he’s starting to meet the others, which is the most fun.

Combeferre is overly serious and forever with his nose in a book. He appears taciturn and a little vague, but has the best deadpan delivery Grantaire’s ever heard. His early days boyfriend Courfeyrac is part and parcel of the friendship – well, off screen, because on screen they’re mortal enemies or something – and his job under Valjean means he knows far more than he’s meant to about the whole process.

Bossuet and Joly he met on the first day as a little duo trying to get by on sweet vocal harmonies. Even on the most left wing verion of the show Britain has ever seen, there’s no slack being cut for anyone outside of the box.

“Given that we’re both raucously gay, we need to up our game, you know?”

 _Raucously?_ Combeferre mouths, incredulous, at Grantaire, who grins.

“Definitely,” says Bossuet, grinning.

But the whole thing gets rolling one afternoon when Grantaire is called into the studio to touch up a recording.

“There’s no small chance that you’ll get roped into a group,” Valjean had said, “but you need to work as much on your individual stuff as you can. Besides, down the track it might be a good option, circumstances pending, and all that.”

Grantaire shuffles into the studio foyer and swipes his card. The rehearsal rooms aren’t too far into the labyrinth of a building, but he’s quite warm, having shed coat, sweater, and scarf, by the time he gets to Room 3. It’s five minutes until Jehan is due to meet him. He hunkers down beside the door, pulls out his phone, and pauses as the muffled voices inside stop. He can hear the odd buzz of the pre-recording track, and frowns, listening.

His first thought, after _holy fuck_ , is a grateful prayer to the gods of public transport that he turned up early. The voice on the other side of the door is heavenly, effortless, and rings with conviction, though the soundproofing on the door means he can’t hear any diction.

Jehan turns up right as the others leave, so Grantaire doesn’t get even a second to try to work out who it was. Four guys leave the room just as he enters. He’s hoping it’s the one with gold hair and the world’s most pissed-off expression. He launches into the recording touch ups a moment later, and forgets the whole thing.

Fast forward a week. Valjean calls him and tells him there’s a group, and there’s nothing in his contract to let him step out. He shrugs, even though it’s a phone call.

“No problem. Are we meant to come in and meet up?”

“For sure,” says Valjean. “This Tuesday. The five of you can chat and we’ll put something together that afternoon just to see how it goes. See you at nine?”

The grumpy one is the fifth member, along with Combeferre, Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire. He learns that Combeferre prefers only the last syllable of his name, and latches onto the fact like a lifeline.

“Me too,” he says, grinning.

He’s introduced to Enjolras, who is cold but polite. Grantaire has no idea what he’s doing on the show. He doesn’t even know if he’s definitely a singer. Valjean and Javert both advised him, as they seem to have done with everyone, not to actually watch the show.

It turns out that the grumpy one _is_ the one with the angel voice. Grantaire can almost feel himself falling in love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Two years before**

“I still can’t really believe this is happening,” says Javert, scowling.

“Sorry,” Enjolras says stiffly.

He’s not sorry, and neither is Grantaire, but this is routine by now. Enjolras rants about something important, Grantaire tears him down, conversation dissolves, blows – verbal, usually – are exchanged, and someone scolds them when the truth comes to light. Well, whenever the press gets word of it, anyway.

Javert dismisses them into the corridor. Grantaire pulls a face, staring at his shoelaces.

“See you tomorrow, I guess,” he says.

“Yeah,” says Enjolras, not looking at him. “Tech run is at four.”

It’s impossible to tour with a band and fight all the time. Sure, Enjolras usually sticks with Combeferre, and Grantaire with the others, but they’ve settled into their usual truce by the time Cosette is finalising their sound check the next day.

“I still think it’s funny how dramatic they all are about it,” says Joly, as they wait for the cue to start rehearsal.

He’s sitting on a funny little fold-up chair to conserve his energy.

“We’re not even trying to keep on the dee-el,” says Bossuet, tracing the letters with his toe on the stage floor.

Online fans have been speculating about Enjolras and Combeferre as a couple. Gay rumours, as with any boy band, abound, but they’ve somehow missed Bossuet and Joly’s relationship entirely.

“You shouldn’t be,” says Enjolras, shrugging.

With his hands in his pockets, staring out at the empty stands, he could be doing a Revolution, Revolution photo shoot right now and no one would be any the wiser. Grantaire takes a mental note to mention it to Eponine next time she has a moment.

“Shouldn’t bet doing what?” Courfeyrac asks, trotting onto stage from between two massive crates.

When unpacked, they’ll form a set of giant blocks that stack like stairs at the back of their set. When he gets excited, Bossuet likes to clamber up and down them and has to be reminded that he is _a musician, not a monkey, you know_ , by Valjean or Cosette, or anyone passing by, really.

“Pretending to be straight, or, well, anything that isn’t the social norm,” Enjolras says.

“Except for pretending to be happy. That’s a must,” Grantaire can’t help saying.

Enjolras huffs a laugh.

“For the cameras, I suppose so,” he says.

“Aside from commercialised satisfaction, though,” says Joly, “why shouldn’t these guys just make out on live TV?”

He gestures to Combeferre, who’s deep in conversation with one of the technicians, Feuilly, about his trapdoor entrance at the beginning of the night.

“I certainly hope he won’t be kissing Feuilly,” says Courfeyrac, disgruntled.

Enjolras and Bossuet laugh properly at that.

“Stop chatting, come on, you lot,” Cosette calls from the front of the stands.

Grantaire feels his stomach drop away just slightly. Stage fright has never been his friend.

“The taskmistress awaits,” says Bossuet under his breath.

Enjolras grins. Grantaire looks away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Eighteen months before**

Enjolras isn’t a songwriter by trade. Joly does most of that work, along with Jehan, who writes more than half of the record label’s stuff, not just for Revolution, Revolution. But Enjolras has things to say, and he knows how to say them.

“You’re not always rubbish at lyrics. Maybe you should have been one of those, like, social justice rappers,” Grantaire muses.

He’s sipping from a glass of wine because he might be slightly alcohol dependent but at least he’s got taste.

“Social justice, my ass,” says Enjolras.

“Your ass is a beautiful injustice, Enjolras,” Joly says.

Eighteen thousand feet above the ground, they’re halfway back to London from a handful of concerts in Germany. Grantaire is enjoying the minibar privileges of a private plane.

“Really, though. It isn’t a case of social justice so much as a case of social _awareness_ ,” Enjolras continues. “What’s the point of having this level of sway over a few million people and using it talk about how pretty someone is?”

“I really do think I need to write a song about your ass, though,” says Joly, grinning.

“Don’t be such a wanker,” Enjolras says. “You’ve gotta help me.”

“I’m losing my mi-i-ind,” Grantaire half-sings back.

“ _Not_ writing a love song, R.”

Enjolras pulls a face and scrubs at his eyes. They’re all exhausted, but Enjolras is the one that doesn’t seem to be able to stop. Even Combeferre, who got his A Levels in their first year of touring, knows when to take a nap. The plane lurches. Enjolras groans slightly, tipping his head back in his seat. He closes his eyes.

“What can you possibly be working on – oh,” says Combeferre, looking over at his friend’s notebook. “Does Valjean need it soon or something?”

“Nngh,” says Enjolras, instead of replying.

“What does Valjean need?” Joly asks.

“A song for that memoriam concert,” Enjolras mumbles. The plane lurches again. “Oh god, I hate flying.”

“At least it’s only on planes,” says a sympathetic Bossuet. “Motion sickness in general would wreak havoc for touring.”

Combeferre reminds him that flying anxiety isn’t a type of motion sickness.

“Take a nap,” Joly suggests.

Enjolras just shifts in his seat and scowls, eyes still closed.

A few moments of quiet are broken by Eponine emerging from behind the partition that separates the other staff from the band.

“All okay?”

She’s no nonsense, and Grantaire kind of wishes he could be her friend, not just her charge.

“Enjolras is withering, but aside from that – ”

He toasts her with his nearly-empty glass. She raises an eyebrow and turns back to Enjolras.

“’M fine,” he says, before she can ask, his eyes half open to look up at her, then, glancing back at his notes, “they don’t teach you this in school.”

“Don’t teach you what?” Grantaire mutters. “Sounds an awful lot like you’re attempting romance, Apollo.”

“We’re landing in half an hour or less,” Eponine says over them. “Press meeting about two hours afterwards, so try to be quick through customs, can you?”

“I’m not sure customs is ever quick, Eponine,” says Combeferre.

She lets out a bark of laughter. Joly, who has been dozing, jolts awake.

“Quick as you can be, then,” she says.

“Quicker than last time at Heathrow, at least,” calls Courfeyrac, hidden behind the partition.

“Anything for you, babe,” Combeferre intones.

Bossuet snorts. Eponine grimaces.

“Stop being gross.”

“Can’t, that’s my middle name,” Grantaire says under his breath.

“Shut up and let us nap like the middle aged men we secretly are,” says Joly, and snuggles down into his seat again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Twelve months before**

“Coffee?”

Grantaire, who has been dozing in his bunk, jolts awake. The bus is still shifting side to side. He groans.

“Huh?”

He opens his eyes to the back of Enjolras walking away, picking his path through the debris of five late teens on a tour bus. There’s a cardboard coffee cup wedged between the frame of his bed and the little table secured to the wall of the bus.

“Thanks,” he mutters, but he won’t drink it.

“Oh, you’re awake?”

Joly is scribbling in a book, cross-legged in the bunk beside Grantaire.

“Sort of,” he says, and pulls his duvet back over his legs. “Where are we?”

“Just crossed the border. We stopped about five minutes ago but we couldn’t wake you. Cosette said to keep going,” says Joly, apologetic.

“New York,” Grantaire mutters, mostly to himself.

He feels sick, which makes sense, all things considered. The bus isn’t helping the residual hangover, and while the States means it’s fractionally harder for him to get drunk, he’s managed pretty well so far. Standing up, his stomach lurches, and he’s glad he makes it to the bathroom in time to cough up bile.

“Champagne worth it in the end?” Enjolras asks him a few hours later.

“Fuck off,” he says hoarsely, closing his eyes.

They’re both sitting up near the front in the segment of the bus that still looks like a bus, bench chairs and all.

“Sorry about the bumps,” says their driver, Bahorel, from the front seat.

“You’re not sorry at all,” Grantaire mutters.

“True,” Bahorel says, and Grantaire glances from between half-open lids in time to see him flash a smile back at them both.

“At least we don’t have a show til tomorrow,” says Enjolras after a moment.

“What do you mean, workaholic? I thought you’d be buzzing for another one and annoyed about the whole thing.”  
“I didn’t mean it was good for me,” Enjolras replies, scathing. “I meant you can sleep this all off before you have to get out on stage again. We don’t even have any press meetings.”

Grantaire, eyes closed again, elects to feign sleep rather than fathom this strange twist of consideration.

“How are you always so keen for shows?” he asks, mostly to himself, after several minutes.

The hum of the engine rises and falls for several seconds before Enjolras answers.

“We all signed up for this,” he says eventually.

“Well, yeah, but – ”

Grantaire shrugs. The scrub by the side of the road hurtles past as they get closer and closer to New York. He’s still slumped in his bench seat.

“I think I’m more excited by the possibility that every fresh show brings,” Enjolras continues. “I mean, think about it. We’ve got an audience of forty thousand or more most of the time. What better chance to send out a message?”

“You really do think of it like a campaign, don’t you, like an election.”

Enjolras shifts in his seat, and Grantaire glances across to see him staring back, slightly incredulous.

“Of course it’s a campaign,” he says.

He’s so earnest, in the way Enjolras at seventeen and at twenty is so _Enjolras_ , so much a part of and apart from the music world.

“But like – crowds,” says Grantaire, grinning.

“Crowds are fine if there’s control and if there’s purpose,” Enjolras says. “ _You_ just can’t see the forest for the trees.”

“It’s like you’re running an _actual_ revolution. It’s just a band name, remember?”

Enjolras shakes his head. Incredibly, he’s actually smiling, even as he’s about to pass judgment on Grantaire for all time.

“I named the band that because even though it’s just music to some, it has so much more power. In that sense, it _is_ an actual revolution.”

“I always thought you were a bit insane,” Grantaire mutters.

“Insane for wanting to ignite change?”

Enjolras is almost annoyed now. They’re eyeing each other across the gap between them on the bench seat when the bus goes over a pothole. The frame of the whole thing shudders, and Grantaire slides into Enjolras’ side with a bump.

“Sorry,” Grantaire manages.

He shunts back, telling himself not to think about the feeling of Enjolras pressed up against him. He seems utterly unaffected.

“Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I don’t like concerts,” Grantaire tells him.

“Good thing, too,” says Enjolras, turning to watch the landscape speed past. “This performing gig is our lives for a while yet, I think.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Eight months before**

“I can’t believe I agreed to this,” Enjolras says, but he’s suppressing a smile.

Bossuet is laid out like a piece of meat, wincing, as the tattoo guy finishes the last of the needlework. It’s a tiny little record in black, edged in red, but the skin around it looks puffy and Grantaire can’t help but grimace with him.

“You _knew_ the ribcage would hurt this much,” he says.

Bossuet pulls a delightful serious of pained faces before the record is finally done. He sits up and glares at Grantaire.

“Alright Enjolras, lucky last,” says Joly, as Bossuet mimes punching Grantaire in the face.

“I can’t _believe_ it,” Enjolras says again, but slips into the chair that Bossuet has left vacant.

The latter stands in front of the mirror, preening. The little record is stark against the bronze skin of his side, his shirt bunched up in one hand.

They’ve all agreed that this record was worth a celebration, so _Red & Black_ has spawned a tattoo tradition that started with Grantaire doodling on all of their lyric sheets. Bossuet’s is on his side, Joly has an even smaller one on his ankle, and Combeferre’s is on one shoulder blade, though Grantaire can’t remember which one.

Enjolras has elected for his to go on his inner wrist, much to his regret a moment later when the artist starts drawing.

“You’ve all had tattoos before,” he grits out, while the artist chuckles. “Should I have chosen somewhere less painful?”

“It’s always painful,” Joly tells him.

“Like life, Apollo,” says Grantaire.

“Let’s have a conversation about something, then,” Enjolras says, ignoring Grantaire. “Distract me from this bad life decision.”

“This isn’t a change of topic, per se,” says Combeferre, “but Grantaire, why does yours look different?”

He leans over to look at Grantaire’s right arm, and Grantaire glances down. Right below his elbow joint is the same record picture as the others, but on the record’s little label are two neat capital Rs.

“Revolution, revolution,” Joly says, peering over, too and prodding his arm. “And you call me a romantic.”

“It’s also a pun,” says Grantaire, sighing. “R, get it?”

“Guys,” Bossuet says suddenly. “Why didn’t we call _Red & Black _just the letters? R and B? We’re so stupid!”

“Because then we would have named our record after you and R, and that wouldn’t do,” Enjolras says primly, then, “ow, _fuck_.”

“Also we are literally a boy band, Bossuet. What a wuss,” says Combeferre affectionately.

“Bugger off,” Enjolras mutters, but he’s close to laughing again. “I like the label on yours, though.”

Grantaire looks anywhere but back at him.

“I’d say we should all come back and add to our labels, if you like the idea that much, but – ”

“ – you’re not getting me in this chair again once I leave.”

“Utter wuss,” Joly says, and gets punched in the arm when Enjolras’ record is finally done.

 

<> 

 

“Wait, can you actually write anything other than protest songs, or is that a condition?”

Grantaire ducks as Enjolras chucks a pencil across the dressing room at him.

“What else am I going to write about that’s _worth_ writing about?”

He reemerges from halfway behind the chair to Enjolras’ raised eyebrow.

“Surely there are things you care about other than the sad state of British political affairs. Coffee? The colour red? Some girl? There’s got to be something.”

“I’m going to excuse your heteronormative assumptions on the grounds that everyone in this room knows I’m gay,” says Enjolras, but he’s half smiling and Grantaire is a goner, as per usual.

“Maybe you’re bi and you just haven’t found the right girl yet,” he throws back, grinning.

“Fuck off,” says Enjolras, and then, “does anyone have a better phrase to describe bloodbath politics so that I sound less like a heinous communist and more like a boy band figurehead?”

Joly pulls a face in the mirror at Bossuet, who snorts with laughter.

“Just write it like a love song but address it to the people, or something,” says Grantaire.

Joly is running his fingers through his fringe in an attempt to fix it. Marius is fussing, telling him not to mess up his work.

“Baby, you know we can live for-e-e-ver!” Grantaire sighs, before dissolving into laughter.

Enjolras flips him the bird and resumes scribbling.

“Feel free to fix this birds nest if you’re done with him,” Bossuet tells him, pointing at Grantaire.

“It’s not a birds nest,” says Marius, pouting, but comes over anyway.

“It’ll look like I actually tried if you fix it, though,” Grantaire says.

He tunes back in to the other conversation as Marius sprays some godawful concoction in his hair.

“I don’t write love songs,” Enjolras is saying.

Grantaire rolls his eyes.

“Yet,” says Combeferre.

“Beat me to it,” Bossuet tells him, grinning.

“Fuck off,” Enjolras says again, and scowls, somehow affectionate, across the dressing room.

“That’s definitely _not_ a phrase for a love song,” Grantaire points out. “You need more _don’t let it go_ and _we can make it_ , etcetera, etcetera.”

“Five minutes,” calls Courfeyrac.

“Shit,” Marius mutters, and runs a comb through Grantaire’s hair.

“Looks like I’m still the expert on love songs,” Joly sighs, pulling himself to his feet. He gets a wince from Enjolras as he raps him across the knuckles with the end of his cane. “Come on, boyband figurehead, we’ve got a stage to take over.”

 

 <>

 

“Thank you so much, really, it’s been wonderful!”

Enjolras is calling out into the crowd like he’s born to do it. He slings an arm around Joly and Combeferre as the bass drum rumbles, buzzing through the floors against the soles of Grantaire’s shoes. He feels slightly sick, and this is only their first night on this leg of the tour.

Bossuet claps him on the shoulder as he strides across to stage left. At his feet, girls are screeching, and he grins, offering high fives as he goes. Enjolras’ voice rings out again.

“R, I think we have one last song, don’t we?”

“If you don’t stop flirting with Joly and Ferre you’re all going to miss your entries,” he manages, and pastes on a grin.

From across the sea of lights, Enjolras is radiant.

“I am very comfortably taken, thank you,” says Joly.

Bossuet makes a disgusting mock-kiss sound from his side of stage, to raucous applause.

“I am very _un_ comfortably unable to leave,” Combeferre says, but he’s laughing.

He pretends to be utterly offended at Joly’s romantic gestures back at his boyfriend. Grantaire still isn’t sure if the press actually know they’re dating, or if they assume that the two of them both just casually sleep with Musichetta.

The drumbeat picks up and he drags himself out of his thoughts just as Joly sings the opening verse. He closes his eyes as the snare goes double time, and allows himself a second to breathe before he begins the second half of the verse. Bossuet croons harmonies in the background.

It’s something about a girl, as always. Pity it’s always been about someone else, really. He sings the last line – something about her eyes, maybe? It’s all muscle memory at this point – and as the chords shift wonderfully, Enjolras starts to sing the chorus.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Four months before**

The problem with the high life is that it looks like that but isn’t, half the time.

“I feel like we’ve been on tour for three years,” Grantaire says, staring into his beer.

“We basically have,” says Bossuet, shrugging. “I mean, it was nearly three years ago we all got signed up together. The few months beforehand we knew it was probably happening.”

“Don’t you get sick of it? I mean, I don’t – ”

“’Course,” Bossuet says easily. “But there are good things amongst it all, aren’t there? Besides, I don’t know what else I’d want to be doing.”

 _Painting, writing my own fucking music some of the time, sleeping more than three hours a night_.

Grantaire isn’t even sure if he’s hit a rut with his depression, or if he genuinely doesn’t feel like performing anymore. It’s hard to gauge. He gets out of bed. He drinks his coffee. He rehearses. He performs. Sometimes he has an hour for a nap in the afternoon. Sometimes he performs entirely sober. The last two are rarities.

 

<> 

 

“I don’t think I can sing Barricade,” is the first suggestion he makes.

Enjolras frowns, but it’s replaced half a second later with a much flatter expression.

“Are you sick?”

“Think so,” Grantaire says, instead of explaining.

 

<> 

 

“R, what was that?” Joly asks.

He tries to shrug, or maybe give an explanation, but he feels his face start to crumple instead.

“Hey, that sounded way too accusatory, sorry,” says Joly hurriedly.

They’re halfway through a concert and Grantaire has barely said a word. He’s sung all the songs, but he feels like a robot.

“It’s fine,” Grantaire tells him. He pulls himself together for another night. “I’m really fucking tired is all.”

“I hear there are some long-term fans here,” he calls out into the crowd, half an hour later.

They’ve changed costumes, and he’s had a drink or four, and he can manage this. The crowd screeches and crows like it’s all one creature. He grimaces.

“We’re going to fill every nook and cranny in the place with this song,” Joly cries.

“Enjolras, if you would?”

He asks this every time they sing the title track of _Red & Black_, because he’s a sucker for traditions, but for a second Enjolras looks entirely lost, staring over at him from the other side of stage. It’s only a fraction of a second, but he nearly breaks, nearly asks him what’s wrong. Another millisecond and the moment is gone.

“I’m going to ask you all to sing along!”

It’s Enjolras’ standard reply. He turns, like a conductor, to raise an arm towards the crowd. They’re a sea of lights, forty thousand voices, and Grantaire feels like he’s drowning.

 

<> 

 

He can’t do it, and the worst part is that there isn’t an alternative. He writes four versions of an apology letter to send to the others before scrapping all of them and sending them a text.

_Have to talk to you all about something important. Can we chat on Wednesday?_

Their schedule is torture so it’s not a good time, but at least it’s after a day off but before a new spate of concerts. They’ll be in London.

They all text back things along the line of _yeah, sure_ and Grantaire bites the bullet and calls Valjean, first.

 

<> 

 

The Wednesday is the best and worst day of his life. Joly cries. Bossuet shrugs, but frowns, claps him on the shoulder, tells him to rest up. Combeferre frowns a lot and says little. Enjolras says nothing at all.

A week later, when the whole thing is signed off, Grantaire gets a text from Bossuet.

_Did our first concert without you. Enjolras cried afterwards_

He gets a text from Combeferre, too.

_You didn’t ever tell him, did you? I’m not sure that was wise._

He wants to call them, wants to call Enjolras, and tell them he desperately wants to be back. But he doesn’t because he doesn’t, and because he’s in love with Enjolras, not the revolution.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Now**

He’s forgotten about the single, even though all he’s done for the last week is religiously check all of their private instragrams for hints. Bossuet had told him they were working on something.

“Final touches,” he’d said, sounding like he was laughing. “Enjolras wrote something a bit fun.”

“What are you even talking about?” Grantaire had shot back, trying to laugh like he wasn’t completely confused.

“You’ll see. The next week or so, I’m sure of it. That’s all I can say.”

“Alright, keep your secrets. Talk soon, then?”

“Definitely. See you round, R.”

There’d been a lump in his throat afterwards. He hasn’t been called that in person in a while.

When the font of all knowledge, Facebook, assures him that Revolution, Revolution has indeed dropped another single, he’s buzzing with impatience (and a little bit of alcohol). He waits for the shitty hotel internet to load the clip. He presses play.

 

<> 

 

**29 January, 2016 – R-Evolution?**

_Former Revolution, Revolution singer, album artist, and lyricist Grantaire (stage name R), has been spotted in London a day before the band’s biggest concert yet in the capital._

_Since his departure from the band and signing to Brick Records, it seems that Grantaire has spent most of his time carving out his own name separate to his boy band history._

_Is he back in time to revisit the boys who helped make his name great? His former boss, Jean Valjean, has commented on his presence as “a great reminder of the way the industry can affect people who can get through it all. I’m really proud of R’s decisions this year, even though they’ve not been easy”._

_His instagram hasn’t given us a hint of what he might be up to, but we’ve got a guess. His most recent caption on a photo of his record tattoo (from the band’s Red and Black days) from last week reads: “history, huh?”_

 

<> 

 

In the world’s least surprising news, Grantaire is enough of a masochist to call Valjean and ask if he can get a ticket. In the world’s most surprising news, Valjean is entirely for the idea and makes sure to send him a pass for backstage and everything as if he didn’t actually sign off his contract nearly four months ago.

He ends up going with Jehan, because the guy isn’t just a master of sound engineering, but generally hilarious. Also he has a crush on one of the maintenance guys, or something. Grantaire’s hazy on the details.

When they get there, though, he’s accosted by Cosette almost straight away and dragged off. Jehan follows, amused and unsurprised.

“You’ve got to come chat to them all!” she says, accusatory, as she pulls him down winding corridors of packing cases and backstage equipment.

“I’ve – I talk to them all the time, Cosette,” he tries, weakly.

She stops and he barrels into her.

“Sorry,” he says.

“You most definitely don’t talk to them all the time,” she says, and starts pulling him along again.

They bump into Combeferre first, who grins and gives him the most solid hug he’s ever received. This is saying something, given that they’ve been friends with Bossuet for years.

“I’ve got to run,” he says, apologetic, shrugging into a dark green blazer.

“Nice jacket,” Grantaire tells him, grinning.

“Fuck off,” he replies, laughing, and takes off at a sprint.

“Enjolras is probably already waiting for him,” Cosette is saying, “but the others will still be around here.”

They turn a corner and Joly and Bossuet are playing cards like it’s their first year on the road.

“What are you _doing_?” Cosette screeches.

Marius, who has been slumped beside them watching the game, leaps to his feet.

“Sorry, I, yes, Boly, Jossuet, you should – ”

“Shut up, Marius,” she says sweetly. “Honestly, though.”

Joly and Bossuet look up properly and crack identical grins.

They’ve only got a few minutes before the show, so Grantaire ends up being dragged back along corridors to a spot side stage. Courfeyrac is muttering under his breath, frowning at a clipboard, when they get there.

“I’ll leave him with you,” says Cosette, grinning, and dashes away.

The first half of the concert is, well, extraordinary. Grantaire doesn’t even think he’s being biased.

“What do you think of the new single?” Courfeyrac asks, as they watch Joly lead the crowd in the chorus of Red and Black.

Grantaire pointedly ignores the whole thing. Joly is singing his lines. The four of them are in the same green. He hadn’t realised how much it might hurt to see them together.

“Well,” says Grantaire, and he’s sort of laughing. “I was kind of confused.”

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow, half turned towards him in the dim backstage lighting.

“Enjolras? A love song? I mean, who’s it for?” he says, grinning.

Courfeyrac is outright staring at him now. Grantaire crams his hands in his pockets and frowns, looking away.

“What?”

“You have no idea, do you?” asks Courfeyrac slowly.

Grantaire shakes his head.

Most of the concert is, of course, old stuff, but soon enough they’re introducing _our newest single, everybody!_ and they’re singing History.

From his spot in the friends-and-family box, it’s as if he’s backstage, having been led there soon after the opening two songs. He peers down from his vantage point as Bossuet sings the opening verse, something about losing his mind over someone. Nothing new. Joly takes over. The words are still stock-standard. In fact, now that he’s thinking about it, this is supposed to be Enjolras’ song, but it barely sounds like him at all. Maybe Enjolras in love is the really boring version of Enjolras that no one’s seen before. Perhaps it’s good that Grantaire’s feelings were so one-sided…

He wrenches himself back to the present as the four of them sing the chorus. It aches. A small part of him wishes he’d never gotten the ticket. The rest of him is desperate to join them. He swallows and blinks and reminds himself firmly that Revolution, Revolution isn’t his band anymore.

Enjolras is singing something about tattoos, now. Grantaire takes a second to rewind the song in his head, and stares down at the stage, feeling sick. Is the song about the band? It can’t be. It must be. It can’t. There must be a girl, a boy, a someone. He offers a bitter prayer to the gods that be, and wishes them all the best.

“What did you think of the single?”

He’s backstage, afterwards, and this time it’s Enjolras asking, and fuck he wrote this song but _half the lyrics are Grantaire’s and also who’s_ –

“I thought you didn’t write love songs,” Grantaire hears himself saying. “Who’s the lucky girl? Or boy, or person of indeterminate gender, you know – ”

Enjolras laughs and says nothing. It sounds strange, or bitter, like what Grantaire’s laughter sounds like when he’s pretending things are fine.

“Don’t you have an after party to go to?” Grantaire asks, grinning. “I mean, you don’t have to answer my question, I just thought it sounded like either it was about the band, in which case, you’re a sap, or someone – ”

Enjolras reaches out a hesitant hand and brushes Grantaire’s hair out of his eyes.

“You’re so fucking blind,” say Enjolras.

“Oh,” says Grantaire.

“Oh,” Enjolras says back, grinning, and kisses him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Bossuet]  
>  _You gotta help me, I’m losing my mind_  
>  Keep getting the feeling you wanna leave this all behind  
> Thought we were going strong  
> I thought we were holding on  
> Aren’t we?
> 
> [Joly]  
>  _No they don’t teach you this in school_  
>  Now my heart’s breaking and I don’t know what to do  
> Thought we were going strong  
> Thought we were holding on  
> Aren’t we?
> 
> [everyone]  
>  _You and me got a whole lot of history_  
>  We could be the greatest team that the world has ever seen  
> You and me got a whole lot of history  
> So don’t let it go, we can make some more, we can live forever
> 
> [Combeferre]  
>  _All of the rumours, all of the fights_  
>  But we always find a way to make it out alive  
> Thought we were going strong  
> Thought we were holding on  
> Aren’t we?
> 
> [Enjolras]  
>  _Minibars, expensive cars, hotel rooms, and new tattoos, good champagne, and private planes_  
>  But they don’t mean anything  
> Cause the truth is out, I realise that without you here life is just a lie  
> This is not the end, this is not the end  
> We can make it you know it, you know
> 
> [everyone]  
>  _You and me got a whole lot of history_  
>  We could be the greatest team that the world has ever seen  
> You and me got a whole lot of history  
> So don’t let it go, we can make some more, we can live forever
> 
>  
> 
> _You and me got a whole lot of history_  
>  We could be the greatest team that the world has ever seen  
> You and me got a whole lot of history  
> So don’t let it go, we can make some more, we can live forever
> 
>  
> 
> [everyone/feat. Enjolras]  
>  _So don’t let me go, so don’t let me go_  
>  We can live forever  
> Baby don’t you know, baby don’t you know  
> We can live forever
> 
>  
> 
> This one time, [crazyboutremmy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/crazyboutremmy) sent me the newest One Direction single and in four days, a band fic was born. (The song is, of course, History, so I have unashamedly stolen it for this but didn't write it myself, etc. etc. )
> 
> The fic isn’t long, so here are some additional headcanons that didn’t make the cut:
> 
> \- Musichetta met tipsy Joly and Bossuet at a tiny fan meetup right at the beginning of their fame and they hit off right away – she claims she’s the only one allowed to be a hardcore fangirl, and no one is willing to argue with the pretty black chick with a flower tattooed around one eye  
> \- Eponine got herself and Gavroche out of a terrible contract with Thernardier records and landed a job with Jean Valjean almost directly afterwards because he was so impressed with how she’d done it  
> \- Grantaire drew all of their album art
> 
> The first article in the piece is a direct ripoff of one about Zayn's solo career after leaving One Direction. Hooray for trashy celeb articles!
> 
> Also I have an epilogue in my head that I can’t shake so I’ll probably post that as a separate, much shorter, one-shot.
> 
> Come say hi on [tumblr](herringbonefic.tumblr.com) :)


End file.
